


there are some who call me...greg.

by jonphaedrus



Series: What Does M.T. Stand For Anyway? [7]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Gyms, M/M, Past Relationship(s), no betas we die like men, ridiculous sports contests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 00:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13581891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: His Royal Majesty Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII: Oh, thats Greg.His Royal Majesty Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII: Yeah, he’s cool.





	there are some who call me...greg.

**Author's Note:**

> calling gilgamesh greg was the best part of the hildibrand plotline for 2.x and frankly ill fight anybody who says otherwise
> 
> this is bad, and unbetad, and my brain is full of cotton and screaming and its 1245 but here we go, we did it lads. we did it.
> 
> timeline-wise, this fic is about ten years before the present of this universe.

There were a couple hard and fast rules about the Citadel gym: it was only for use by official employees of the Crown, you had to have a special key card to get in, and nobody ever went when Clarus was there because nobody liked getting shown up at every single possible thing by a guy who buzz-cut his hair because he was balding and embarrassed about it.

None of which explained why, on his first day back at the gym after taking two bullets to the leg, Cor looked up from fixing his knee brace to see someone walk in, someone he didn’t recognize. But that wasn’t too weird; there were plenty of people in the Citadel who he didn’t know. Could be anybody.

Except this guy was at least a foot taller than he was and had bright lavender hair, so, uh, maybe not.

Cor went back to his knee brace, checking his pulse while he waited, and then looked up to see the guy binding up his hair into a tight bun on top of his head, stretching, and then getting down on the rowing machine. He started slow, and Cor went back to running on the treadmill, trying to get his leg to take a full mile, his heart rate working its way back up to pounding.

And he watched the strange, lavender-haired man start to do the most intense rowing machine exercise he’d ever seen. Like, dude could have been preparing to go log-tossing. He wasn’t even grunting in exertion, and Cor wouldn’t have been surprised if he had actually broken some of the wiring. By the time Cor had run his mile and stopped to check his pulse and stretch his healing leg again, the guy was done, had stood up, and left. He wasn’t even out of breath. He hadn’t visibly broken a sweat.

 

 

16875442388: There was a stranger in the gym today.  
His Royal Majesty Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII: Explicate?  
16875442388: Tall guy.  
16875442388: Purple hair.  
His Royal Majesty Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII: Oh, thats Greg.  
His Royal Majesty Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII: Yeah, he’s cool.

 

 

Greg was also there the following week when Cor went at the same time, and after he’d run his mile, he stopped, came over to watch the man on the rowing machine. His arms looked like grapefruits. Dozens and dozens of grapefruits, stacked on top of one another, currently practicing rowing at maximum speed. He was going so fast and so hard, with the highest tension strength, that the seat kept clanging back against the base of the machine. Cor watched, stretching his leg behind him, balanced on his opposite foot, until the man’s ten-minute timer beeped and he stopped immediately and got up. Still wasn’t even breathing hard.

“Hi,” Greg said, looking down at Cor. It wasn’t a _new_ experience, exactly—Titus was taller than he was, as was Ravus and Clarus, but Greg was a lot _taller_ than all three of them—as Cor looked up at Greg. “You’re Leonis, right?”

“Yes,” Cor said. “We’ve not met.” Not officially, anyway. Being told by Regis that the stranger’s name was _Greg_ and he _was cool_ was just about the opposite of knowing anything useful about him. “I couldn’t help but notice your rowing is…intense,” he settled on. Greg nodded, once.

“Yeah. I haven’t broken this machine yet. It’s my goal.”

Ok.

What was it with his life, and these people, and why was everyone Cor ever met _fucking weird_.

Greg stuck out one hand. It was huge. Cor shook it. His hand was very small. “Greg,” he said. “I’m a personal trainer.”

“Cor,” Cor said. “I’m the Marshal. How come I’ve never seen you around here before?”

“You know,” Greg replied. Waved a hand. “Stuff.” Cor felt his brow wrinkle as he frowned, but didn’t question it too much. It wasn’t...the weirdest response he’d ever heard. Ardyn certainly had given weirder explanations for things. “Busy guy. Glad we could finally meet. You should give rowing a try sometime. It’s fun.”

And then he just turned around and left, and Cor made up his mind to find out what the hell was going on here, because the only thing he liked less than suspicious mysteries were suspicious mysteries that involved _Ardyn._

 

 

It became something of a ritual. Cor would go, meet Greg in the gym. They would do their respective workouts, swap training tips, Greg would comment telling Cor he was getting faster (and, memorably, asked to see the bullet scars when Cor explained his PT situation) and then go their separate ways for another week. Finally, though, one day Greg came in to see Cor doing reps on the rowing machine, significantly slower than Greg usually did as he got used to the slightly different muscles he needed. “Your knees are taking that very well,” Greg said, standing over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Cor replied, between reps. “Looks like they’re finally back to their usual selves.” He finished up his reps and stood, drinking, and wiped his face off with his towel while Greg cleaned up the seat and went to get started on his...intense whatever the hell it was he did. Trying to break the machine. Cor ran his now five miles on the treadmill, and Greg waited for him so they could talk after. “Now you’re better,” Greg said, “We should have a contest. It’s been a while since I found someone who could keep up with me.”

“What, on the rowing machine?” Cor looked at it, and back to Greg, who shrugged one big shoulder.

“Clarus tried.” He didn’t elaborate. Cor vainly attempted to keep the confusion off of his face, and probably failed. Greg didn’t comment on it, though. “That’s why I come here. I run into people who can give me a challenge. Drautos tried.”

Cor had a lot of questions for Drautos. And he probably wasn’t gonna get any answers from his brother, either. So he just did what he’d learned to do with Ardyn and nodded like he had any idea what was going on and said: “Sure, yeah. I’d love to go head to head sometimes.”

 _Famous fucking last words, idiot_.

 

 

“I heard you lost a contest to Greg?” Was what Cor opened his conversation with Clarus with, four days later, over a hot cardboard carryout container of coffee Ardyn had left a very conspicuous lipstick-mark on, and Clarus looked at him in genuine fear. Cor frowned.

“Uh,” Clarus said. “Yeah. Yeah. Still have the scars.” _The scars?!_ “Why do you ask?”

“He challenged me and I said yes.”

“Oh, dude, you’re fucked. Sorry.” Clarus clapped him on the shoulder. “Drink a ton of protein before. Like, ready to run a marathon a ton. Energy gels are your friends. I have a couple if you don’t have any. Should help.” Cor continued to stare at him, genuinely baffled. There was no good way here to ask what in the ever-loving hell he had signed up for, so he just nodded, like he knew what Clarus was talking about. “If anybody can give him a run for his money, though, it’s probably you. But like. Your funeral.”

“Well, too late now,” Cor settled on, which sort of got across his sheer confusion, disillusionment with life, and genuine interest in whatever hellhole he’d stumbled into this time. “Just don’t sell tickets.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you.” If nothing else, it was the real, genuine sorrow in Clarus’ voice that made Cor actually, for real, worried. But hey, he’d survive. Right? It couldn’t possibly be worse than getting shot, and Cor had been shot a couple of times.

 

 

16875442388: I’ll be late coming home.  
Ardyn L. C. Izunia: :-(  
16875442388: I have to do a thing for work. Don’t give me that  
Ardyn L. C. Izunia: boooooooooooring  
16875442388: I’ll bring home takeout.  
Ardyn L. C. Izunia: :-)

 

 

The appointed day came, and Cor schlepped over to the gym after his work shift, stretched and limbered. He was tired, but not worn out—it was more the sort of tired that just meant he didn’t want to do anything else productive, not that he wanted to go to bed.

Greg was waiting for him at the gym, in a cut-off tank top with two swords on a chain and a block-print logo saying SWORDCHUCKS, YO! and shorts, his athletic socks smartly pulled up to his shins, his long purple hair tied up and a sweatband around his head and wrists. He tossed Cor a stopwatch. “Half hour, reps, rowing machine. Whoever breaks it the most wins.”

Cor stared at him. “Doesn’t that seem a little counterproductive? Breaking the machinery and all. Seems like it would lead to us hurting ourselves.” Greg raised his eyebrows.

“Think about it this way,” he said, crossing his arms. Big fucking grapefruit arms. “We’re in a contest with an impartial third judge. That judge can’t be fooled.” And then he went off on a long, rambling rant about machinery versus man, and the method of defeating an indefeatable enemy, etc, etc, etc, which Cor nodded to at the appropriate points and then said:

“Whoever goes second is going to have a leg up, because the machine will already be damaged.”

“That is why there are two rowing machines.” Cor looked, and there were, indeed, two rowing machines. “I will go first on mine, and then we’ll trade.” Cor felt like this was...stupid. Honestly, truly, stupid.

“Look,” he sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “I get that the machinery thing, but. Can’t we just arm wrestle and find the same outcome? It engages pretty much all the same muscles, and we won’t hurt anything but each other, probably.” Greg blinked at him. “If you still want to do the rowing machine thing, I’m happy to go along with it, but this seems a lot faster, and a lot less destructive. So—“

“No, that’s a great idea. Let’s do it.”

Fifteen minutes of sweating, swearing, and what felt like a twisted wrist later, Greg finally managed to lever his arm sideways and smash Cor’s hand into the table they were at with a shout of triumph. “You almost beat me!” Greg said, genuinely delighted. “It’s been years since someone did that!” He grinned.

Cor’s phone went off.

 

 

Ardyn L. C. Izunia: Skip the takeout !  
Ardyn L. C. Izunia: I wanted to cook.  
Ardyn L. C. Izunia: Come home, I made Tenebraen barbecue.

 

 

He looked up at Greg. “Want to come back to my apartment? My boyfriend cooked dinner for me, and he’s not a restaurant chef but he does own a restaurant and he can cook, so make of that what you will, but he’s not burned down any kitchens yet.”

“I’m done for the night. Sure. Let me just change back out of my workout clothes and into something more presentable.” They showered down, changed back, and Cor left to his motorcycle, gave Greg rough directions, the both of them standing out in the balmy late spring evening. Greg, not dressed to work out, let his hair down and put on purple sweats. He rode a bike rather than driving, and said he’d join Cor back at his apartment as soon as he biked over, which meant Cor got back first and found Ardyn in only a negligee, fuzzy red chocobo slippers twice the size of his feet, his hair in (unnecessary) curlers (it was already curly) sipping red wine out of a giant plastic novelty cup he’d gotten from Kenny Crow’s that had Regis dressed up as Kenny Crow on it.

“Put some pants on, I asked a friend over for dinner,” Cor said, after he’d come over, removed Kar from where the cat was currently vibrating like a small furry bee orb on Ardyn’s chest, given his tits a squeeze, and kissed him. “I don’t think he wants to see your dick.”

“My dick,” Ardyn said, pointedly, “Is not out. I am wearing a sensible pair of boy shorts.”

“At least a bathrobe.” Ardyn sniffed at him, but did get up and go rooting around and eventually emerged in, yes, a bathrobe, and went to go get the chicken out.

“Was this friend the work thing you needed to stay and do?” Ardyn asked, plating chicken and rice while Kar busily purred around his ankles. “Go away, little bee box,” Ardyn told him, gently. “You’ll die if I feed you garlic, you silly boy. Who is the friend?”

“Guy I met at the gym, named Greg. We were arm wrestling.” Ardyn paused.

“You were—“ he began, turning to cock one eyebrow at Cor. “Arm wrestling?”

“The alternative was stupider, trust me.” The doorbell rung, and Cor went to go buzz Greg in, opening the door to let him into the apartment. He had to duck under the lintel to not crack his skull on it. He looked around, kicking his shoes off with the pile by the door, and then looked at Ardyn in his bathroom, hair curlers, and small baby-sized persian perched on his shoulders.

“I,” Greg started, “Was going to say that you had some eccentric taste in decorations, unlike your seemingly minimalist aesthetic, and now I see. It all makes sense.”

“Oh, Gilgamesh, is that you?” Ardyn turned around, and giggled. _Giggled._ Like, full on, one hand pressed over his mouth. He fluttered his lashes. “Well, look at you. Dropping in unexpectedly on me.”

“Ardyn.”

“Wait,” Cor said. “How do you—“ He recognized the name Gilgamesh. “Gilgamesh as in _your first boyfriend_?” He looked at Ardyn, and back to Gilgamesh, who shrugged. “Why does everyone say your name is Greg. Why did _you_ say your name is Greg?”

“It’s a nickname Ardyn gave me while extremely, very drunk in college. It’s stuck. Sorry.” Gilgamesh—Greg, whatever—shrugged. “Well, now you know. He has a thing for tall, really buff, soft-spoken guys.”

“Oh,” Cor said, a little darkly. “I knew that.”

Ardyn sighed, shook his head.

“And here I thought I’d finally get a three-way with my two favorite boyfriends. Shows you what I get, Kar. I guess we’ll all just get chicken, instead. Except you. You don’t get any chicken.”

“Moww,” Kar said, balefully and in agony, which Cor rather thought kind of summed the whole thing up pretty succinctly, yeah.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr and twitter @jonphaedrus


End file.
